


Z B E ' S  L O U V R E

by ZBE



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Original work - Freeform, Poetry, Short Stories, stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 5,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22427206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZBE/pseuds/ZBE
Summary: This is a compilation of all my short original works + my current works that I will be updating. This work includes: poetry, old journal entries, short stories, songs, and (possibly) school papers.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Reclaim Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I'm beginning this work with a short poem I wrote. This was a freeform poem I wrote very late at night when I was trying to calm myself down from a violent depressive episode.
> 
> TW:// This poem does contain imagery of decomposing corpses, so if that is weird or unsettling to you, I suggest skipping to the next chapter!

I would enjoy nothing more than to decompose  
in the forest, reclaimed by nature, my body a feast  
for spores and larvae.  
Or to die on the beach by a cliffside, and to  
be swept away by the waves and fed to the  
creatures of the deep.  
To die and never be found, deep in the Sonoran Desert.  
My bones enveloped in the dry, hot dirt.  
Me, to become the altar sacrifice of a cult,  
and to rot away on a porcelain table, or to  
decay on an iron throne.  
All I dream is to be reclaimed by the elements.  
So when I die, please don't burn me,  
Let me go.


	2. Sometimes, I Already Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is another poem I wrote very late at night, when I was thinking a little bit too much..
> 
> TW:// Mentions of non-existance and heavy themes of depression.

I feel so empty, like I've had every ounce of soul discarded from my body,  
So I run back to what's familiar for comfort and security,  
and all I find is more pain.  
Because that is what I know as familiar.  
And it's got me under high security lockdown.  
All I've known since he left, and maybe even before,  
is comparison.   
You'll never be as bad, you'll never be as good,  
so then what am I? Do I just have to live as nothing? A nobody?  
And sometimes,  
I wish I were fully destined to that fate.  
To fall away and amount to nothing in existence.  
But through my empty soul,  
sometimes, I already do.  
That's what feels like happiness.


	3. Text Written In Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello AGAIN! This poem was written after I had scrolled back through some old messages between and a friend who is no longer in my life, again most likely while I was sad. 
> 
> TW:// Themes of depression and loneliness/abandonment

I hate reading old messages,  
because I store them away like sacred memories.  
I always say that one day I'll look back and laugh at the things I said,  
that I'd laugh at my pain, but today,  
today is not that day.  
It's too soon to be that day.  
Instead, all I see is a broken heart, full of fear and pain,  
and a pathetic collection of misery.  
A database full of intentional, emotional typos,   
and text written in tears.  
The only way I could laugh at this,  
was is I felt I was insane,  
and I am on the borderline between passion  
and madness.


	4. The Forbidden Fruit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! This poem is about love and desire. I wrote it about a man I could not have, because of his devoted relationship. Mind you, I do not intrude on committed relationships, hence the title of the forbidden fruit. 
> 
> TW:// Possible religious undertones, desire for love.

Why is it every time I desire something,  
that it is something I can't have?  
A forbidden fruit, trying to tempt me into damnation?  
And isn't it so ironic,  
that the forbidden fruit would be you?  
That the barren fruits of love could be so  
poisonous that it could not be eaten?  
That the fruit of your love could be what crumbles me into pieces?  
Isn't the idea of sin sweet?  
The aura of unknown adventure, enticing, yet so easily turned away by common instinct,  
We hunger for the love we cannot have,  
and turn away because we know it to be wrong,  
and dangerous.  
But you feel so equal.  
You feel so balanced.  
So comforting, yet so dangerous.  
Maybe that is why I want you.


	5. Alakai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This poem was written several months ago in 2019 when I was reflecting on a relationship I was in the year prior. It was not a healthy, or long relationship for that matter...
> 
> TW:// Underlying themes of relationship issues, themes of anger

Love ate me up like a match on fire,  
And consumed every motion and thought I owned.  
But with love consuming every thought,  
There was no room for rationality.  
The only thing I could think of was the hazel of his irises,  
And the sharp teeth that made his shy grin look inhuman.  
I think of the months I spent in admiration,  
And how the fire sparked interest and light.  
I remember how long I let the match stay lit,  
Until the embers breathed out a final long sigh of smoke,  
And the lights went out.  
There’s nothing you can do with a burnt match,  
Except let it crumble.  
I no longer loved his hazel irises,  
Or the sharp grin he would bear.  
The sharp teeth were no longer smiling,  
And had become vicious fangs of anger.  
And oh how he angered.


	6. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I actively write my thoughts, you can look into my mind. You will be able to see the true feelings of someone who is confidently lost in their own life.
> 
> TW:// Depression probably, self hatred, other things to do with sad shit, mentions of body hate, suicide, gender confusion, name confusion, all around too much to handle.

At this point in life my life, I don't get sad when I lose things. I don't get sad when I am not a winner, but I do get sad to not see any of my labors paying off in my favor. And it hurts my soul. I feel as if my efforts are fruitless, and that my work is gone unappreciated, unknown. Even my own mother sees this in my life. 

"Always the bridesmaid, never the bride," as she says. And she's right. Always the lesser, always the unknown. Always the chorus, the background, the sidekick. Always a minute, never an hour, always the fearful, and never the brave. I always seem to lack. I am my own worst critic, but not the only. I can see their side glances of stricken hatred, and disgust. I try to turn my eyes away from them but they somehow always seem to catch up with me. I can hear the whispers, and none of them are kind enough to say a nice word. 

I know apart of it is not my own fault. I know that my work is only a fraction of what my critics see. They see my figure, and they see my face. They see me when I am not presenting myself in a manner of composure, and see me in comfortable moments, but no human is completely unbiased. They see me for what I appear as, and not as the things I do. Why am I not surprised? All my life, I've hated what I looked like. There was never a spare moment where I thought I was even for a second beautiful. When will I be spared from my critics looking at me as I look at myself with judging eyes? When will I be spared from the side glances of disgust I cannot escape?

I can see the millisecond glance at my thighs. I see your eyes perched upon my stomach and chest. I have eyes of my own, I am not blind. Please, just for once look up. Look into my eyes instead of into my shoulders. Then again, they would only see the face they despise so much. Either way I am cursed. So I keep working. I work hard enough so that maybe one day, my face and figure won't matter, and they'll only see my efforts. 

But it's useless. I am useless. I am forever sealed into a fate of unyielding failure. It was who I was made as. The bridesmaid, never the bride. The sidekick, never the hero. The crowd, never the ringleader. I shall not be given love, I shall not be handed success, and my name shall not be heard no matter how hard I work, or how much I try.

I won't bend my knee to kneel and pray at the feet of the critics that beget the sadness in me. I refuse to kiss the ass of the men who I dearly despise for holding me back inside of this cage made of papers, and tears. I watch as my critics kiss the hands and feet of my cage holder and laugh at how pathetic it is, yet still I am jealous. I am jealous that they are so unaware, and unwise. I wish I had such as little sense as they did, because maybe, I would hurt myself less. Maybe then I wouldn't look at my arms and legs in disgust, and I would be able to see that I am worth something. But all I see in that mirror, is a face and I name I don't recognize. I see a gender which I despise, and a body which I would wish to go away. I see my long brown hair, and imagine taking a scissor straight through the hair by the nape of my neck. I see the name I was given hang above my head as if I was trapped and hung by a noose to my fate. Destined to be that pearl of wisdom for all of eternity, but god I wish to let it go. 

I want to remain nameless and faceless forever. Forever without a figure or shadow, but just a voice in the place of my body. It seems to me that my voice is all I have left of me that is not despised and hated, yet no one ever cares enough to listen to what I have to say. How ironic. 

So what am I to live for? Myself? The person I despise most? Hell no! But I am too much of a coward to do the deed. 

And again, I find myself being the lesser.


	7. Butterflies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This Drabble may be a bit more NSFW than an average chapter, because honestly, I am big horny, and I cannot write correctly while horny. 
> 
> TW:// Sexual imagery probably, sexy words?, lovey dove shit

Every time you hold my hand, whether it be intentional or just of habit, my heart beat doubles for you. Every time you tower over me like a predator stalking its prey, my heart beat triples, for you. And every time you say those words of joking threat, my heart beat stops. I am frozen in my stance, knees bent and head back, looking up like I could fall to the ground with the slightest touch. All because of the little things you do.

My face doesn't easily show flush, although I am pale, but I wonder what you see when you do these things. I wonder what you think as well, and I would give anything to know. Do you see the tremor in my eyes? Do you see the quiver of my muscles, although they are slight? Can you feel the heat of embarrassment run over me, and ricochet back to you? I have so many questions that I wish you could answer to me, and all with a simple action of love. Looking into your face in those moments, I just wish you would kiss me. Kiss me and grab my shoulders, leaning down into me. I am smaller than you, and just to feel the blessing of your weight, would make me feel so lifted. 

I used to think that you needed to feel those fearful butterflies when you were in love, but I don't fear you. You show me all the affection I desire, though we do not claim a societal status as lovers, or even partners. It is a mutual crush I believe we both share in a way, and I am not afraid. I feel butterflies of comfort when I am with you. A lifted feeling that I am safe and happy. With your head in my lap, and my arms around your shoulders, I feel so loved. I feel a kind of love that I have never found in a confidant before. Yet still, we are not in love, together, rather it is one sided. I, in love with you, you, platonically. Which is fine! I still cherish every moment we spend. 

But my mind continues to wander towards my one sided desires, and I think about you constantly. I not only wonder about the nights we could spend pressed to each other's chests, but the nights we could spend pressing in other spaces. I can almost feel the heat as the thought swells in my stomach. I can imagine the predatory look in your eyes, and I can feel like fearful excitement in mine. I imagine your hands wrapped tightly around my wrists, and your knees pinned to my legs. Helpless at another's disposal. I think about all the places you would touch and feel, and all the places I would worship, and I'm filled with a longing delight. I could only wish for that day to come.

Maybe you'll notice the quiver in my lip, or the tremor in my eyes someday, and you can fulfill my longing prophecy.


	8. Things That Were Said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are increasingly negative things that have been said to me over the years. I wanted to show people why words matter so much, because these are things I will always remember.
> 
> TW:// Mentions of religion, someone saying K'll yourself, negative comments

"I would rather you flip me off and walk out of class than make up excuses."

"...shithole asshole friend that I don't even like. Wow they went full blown Jesus on my face and I'm like dude, I'm a Satanist, stop, and at the end they said God bless and ew they suck. And I can't believe [insert name here] used to be my friend, she's so ugh!!! She's so self centered and only cares about her spotlight. No I am not exaggerating the chat was so shitty and OMG why did I even continue it?? Anyways I'm relieved that shit is over, haha yeah I'm a bad person."

"Your art sucks, you're annoying."

"Kill yourself, you're ugly."

"I'm cringing so hard."

"If you ever decide to become a professional actor, which you shouldn't."

"They wouldn't accept you. You'll sign your life away."

"By the way, I do care about you and love you as a friend, it's just I can't take your personality. Didn't mean to throw you away, it's just your personality bothers me."

"I'm disappointed in you."


	9. Lord of the Flies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a poem I wrote in Sophomore year about the book Lord of the Flies in my Pre-AP English class! It is very short, and hopefully not triggering!
> 
> TW:// Undertones of Lord of the Flies

There are miles of distance between safety,  
And the cold embrace of my island.  
And I feel trapped inside of a dome  
Of salty earth and water.  
I want to go back home.  
I've been caught in a bear trap,  
With little to no hope,  
Of ever escaping.   
The only soft embrace my tender skin  
feels,  
Is the warmth of the crackling fire,  
And slowly but surely  
Fading embers.


	10. Short Poems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of very short poems I wrote a while back. Each poem is based off of a single randomized word.
> 
> TW:// Themes of loneliness and self hatred.

Melody:

With the touch of each key,  
I feel a note pinch into my skin.  
Vibrations of melody  
Glide gently against my forehead.  
I open my throat,  
And I can see flowers grow.

Sun:

I hated the light for a long time,  
But one day when I was cold,  
I opened the door  
And felt warmer than ever.  
Blankets of light covered my pale skin,  
And I was never so happy to sweat.

Arms:

And after I cried  
I fell into your arms  
With dry burning eyes.  
And everything that shouldn't have mattered,  
Suddenly disappeared  
With a resounding clatter.

Fear:

Everyday I step foot on the ground,  
I am fearful of the possibility   
Of having to see your face again.  
There's never a day that I walk  
On concrete ground, where I once saw your figure,  
And not live in fear  
Of seeing you cross me again.

Calling:

My life is music,  
But I've been afraid  
That one day  
The music will stop.  
And the aching silence  
Will destroy me.

Babe:

My mom used to hold me,  
And protect me as a babe,  
But now she calls me by my name  
With beckoning and wondering,  
Concerned that someone else  
May call me the names she once had said.

Disc:

Most of my memory  
Is kept on a disc,  
Or a drive that holds  
The thoughts I let go.  
And sometimes,  
When I think hard enough,  
I want to scratch the memories away.

Existing:

Drifting away to another forgotten fantasy land,  
Deja Vu suddenly dons upon my body  
As all the outlines of the objects become familiar.  
I don't remember ever existing in this space,  
But I have seen this place once or twice before,  
In a mindset known to me as a wasteland dream. 

Golden: 

Can a heart truly be golden?  
I was told by many that my soul was old,  
And my heart was gold,  
But I never believed for a minute,  
That I was good.  
I was wise in my words,  
And literate with my tongue,  
But philosophy is merely of opinion,  
And my opinion never felt right.  
Now I see why I felt so wrong,  
Because I used my words,  
To make others content,  
But I never spoke out,  
For something that I truly believed.  
My heart was covered in a layer of gold,  
But when peeled away, it was purely stone. 

History:

What do I have to do to be known?  
How do I make my dreams  
Of fame and following  
A reality?  
I don't need money,  
And I don't want to deal with hate,  
But I'll try my best to help the world,  
There's history I can make.

Inside:

"What is going on inside?  
They must be having fun.  
I don't want to go inside.  
Maybe someone will notice that I'm gone,  
And then I'll go in when they find me."  
But they never looked for me,  
And I stayed alone.


	11. Haikus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's some VERY old material from my Freshman year. Three haikus I was asked to make by my Pre-AP English teacher.
> 
> No Trigger Warnings this time!

In Moment:

I sit in a tree,  
Wind blows through my tussled hair,  
Quiet is so calm.

No.:

Hallways never sleep,  
I walk in my crowded school,  
I hate these people.

Best Idiot:

I laugh with my friend,  
Brennon, he brings me much joy,  
But he's kind of dumb.


	12. Cousin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This short story is one I wrote in my Sophomore year for fun! It is about my cousins who live out of state. I hope you enjoy it, because this time around, it's longer!
> 
> TW:// Mentions of family deaths

I occasionally will go to see my mother's sister's side of my family. Traveling all the way to Ventura, California, from Tucson, Arizona, can be a tiring 8 hour trip, but in the end it is worth the drive. I remember driving in dad's F-150 for hours as a kid, listening to Disney soundtracks the whole way, or playing games on my Nintendo DS Lite, or Leapfrog device all the way there. I always loved the trip there. Stopping at the McDonalds in Glendale, or the Shell gas station up in Quartzsite, with all the cute little knick-knacks, the tractors that were permanently parked in front of the station for all the tourists to look at, and of course my favorite, the giant metal dinosaurs, that were never for sale, and even if they were, than it would be much more money than anyone in a small town like that would ever make yearly, and the old stinky bathrooms that were grossly familiar, until they were remodeled when I was 11. Quartzsite was always my favorite roadside stop for some odd reason, but you never hear anyone whisper it's name, unless it's, 'Yeah the gas stop with all the big dinosaurs! That one!' The trip was almost always the most fun part of the drive, but now I rarely ever see the trip to California. I'm always invested in my phone, or a drawing to ever look up from my lap, not that we've been up to California at all in the past 2 years now. I miss the euphoria I feel when the sun begins to set through the car window, at around 5:30 p.m. The road is like my second home. Well, the road to Ventura that is.

Telling my family about the trip is what takes up what feel like all night, and the next morning, until we figure out what to talk about other than ourselves. Usually when we arrive at my Uncle's house, it is only Uncle Bob and Aunt Terry at home, and sometimes Cousin Michelle, if she is not with her caretaker at her apartment. That's why it felt so lonely the last time my mom and I traveled to see them. My Aunt Terry had died, and Michelle wasn't home. Her room which is fill of 80's paraphernalia and artifacts, was cleaned and organized to a certain extent. My second cousins, Chloe and Sophie, temporarily lived with my Aunt and Uncle, because their mother, Danielle, my first cousin, was struggling with many things, but then when we traveled there, they had moved back in with their mom. It felt so empty at arrival. The kids would come in later, along with the little baby Connor, but it still felt so off with only my Uncle to greet us. This is the trip I remember the least about. Maybe because I don't want to remember all the heartache involved. I barely even remember the real reason for traveling: My Aunt's funeral was being held. I didn't like to remember the sound of my mom crying as we buried her ashes by the family tree at the old church my mom used to attend when she was young. I didn't want to remember any of it.

I only wanted to remember the happiness I felt when I was with my baby cousins. Danielle obviously was busy with baby Connor, and Michelle was usually being taken care of at her apartment, but my favorite cousins were the young girls I grew up with. Chloe and Sophie. Chloe was the oldest of Danielle's kids, then Sophie and baby Connor. As a kid, I used to love playing with the girls, treating them like my younger sisters, protecting them and keeping them safe from harm, but as I got older, I grew tired of the child's play, but I still loved lying on the grass in the front yard, under the giant tree, which to this day I still do not know the kind. It always felt so nice, especially in the cool air of Ventura. I remember in the Christmas of 2013, a month after my dad had died, how nice it was to be with my cousins at Christmas under the tree and chatting with family. It was a feeling of home, yet somehow I still feel out of place. The girls were so crazy and excited all the time, I could hardly keep up, even as a young girl, but in the end it was always worth it. In times of sorrow and loss, they were always there to brighten an entire room of people, even if sometimes they were annoying.

I wonder what they are doing now? In school, what are they interested in now? I wonder if Chloe still loves to draw and do art, and if Sophie still wants to dance. It's only been 2 1/2 years since I've seen them, but young kids change so much, in so little time. I think Chloe would now be 10 or 11, and Sophie would be 7 or 8. It's been so long that I can't even really remember the small details of their lives. I know Uncle Bob still regularly calls to check in on us, and we got the news that Danielle and her husband, Mike, would be divorcing, but we still know so little of their lives now. I wonder what will happen to the girls and Connor if Danielle can't support them. Will they move back in with Uncle Bob? it worries me. Maybe soon we can travel back up to Ventura to visit. I'm eager, but scared to see how much they have grown.

I'll be an adult in 2 1/1 years, and maybe if not soon, I can convince my mom for us to move up to our family. She always complains how we have no family here in Arizona, which isn't really her fault. My dad chose to live here in the middle of nowhere, but then again, I'm sure if she really wanted anything to leave Tucson, we would've left already. it's too bad I can't take my cousins back here with us, but they would never be happy here I bet. Their hearts are in Ventura, and to be honest, I think a piece of mine may be there too. I can see little pieces scattered throughout the city. One piece at Bob's house, one on the beach with the big life-size boat where I used to play, one at the park where I met this girl Anisa once, but never talked again unless it was over Facebook, one at the diner I can't remember the name of, where we went with Jessica and her kid, and another piece at the Korean barbecue we ate at one night with Uncle Bob. I could name so many more places, but really my point is that California is like a second home. Ventura is the heart, ad Palm Springs, Los Angeles, San Diego, Indio, San Fransisco, Big Bear, and all of the little traveling roads there are the pieces of my heart, and my memory. 

There's no possible way I'll ever be satisfied with the travels I've taken. Not even when I have visited all the states and countries possible to travel to. My heart is within the world, and everywhere I've been. Yes, even the bad travels, like to Denver, and Fort Collins, Colorado. They all still have some good. The road there is always nostalgic, even if you've never been there, because the world reminds you, that wherever "there" is, it is just another road to better memories. And once they are made in good hands, they are hard to forget.


	13. Beautiful Valencia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This was a poem I wrote for my freshman English class. Unfortunately, this was written about my ex-boyfriend before we broke up, but I hope you like it anyways!

A daily thought I ponder often eats  
And grips my brain. The man I love his name,  
Valencia, he's charming and he's sweet.  
I play my cards, and I go with his games.  
His flannel shirts go perfect with his style,  
"He's handsome!" I say, "What a beautiful  
Man!" I want to hold him close for a while.  
His voice melodic, and so musical.  
Alas, I cannot have his heart, locked up  
So tight with no keys. A very sad man  
That he used to be. Anger just blows up.  
I'll tell him that I'm really a big fan.

"Valencia, I love you more than me,  
so maybe our love could become to be."


	14. Don't Eat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are all my inner thoughts speaking to me, and what is usually hard to ignore. I hear these things usually when my mental state is very poor, which at the moment it is, and writing them out can help with coping with them. These words are very graphic so please do not continue reading if you are easily triggered by the following things:
> 
> TW:// Self harm, eating disorder, depressing thoughts, body shaming, violent thoughts, suicidal thoughts

You don't deserve to eat.  
No one will ever care about anything you do.  
You don't deserve to be happy.  
Everyone will ignore you.  
No on likes you.  
You'll never fall in love.  
No one cares about your art.  
No one cares about your writing.  
Nobody is listening.  
You'll never be as cool as you want to be.  
They all hate you.  
You don't deserve love.  
Your body is gross.  
You'll always be the odd one out.  
You'll always be the weird kid.  
You will never go anywhere.  
Hang yourself.  
Kill everyone.   
Kill yourself.  
Hurt yourself.  
Don't eat.  
Don't try.  
You'll never love yourself.  
And they'll never love you.


	15. Hosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Here's another poem that I wrote after spending some time at my altar, and right before I meditated and settled down for the night. If you read close enough, you can almost smell the incense burning and see the glow of candles....
> 
> TW:// Spiritual imagery

I close my half-lidded, heavy, sore eyes,  
And I become host of a thousand souls  
And they take place in the corner of my mind.  
Open my third eye and let me see through these blurred lines.  
Carry me through space, and take me through time.  
Where at once I was an exile,  
I have become the god of my own design.  
Where at once they would extort my heart from me  
I now know what true love really means.  
So bury my despair in the carved crevices of the earth,  
And I will no longer cling arm and arm with my sicknesses.  
Still with every notebook I will open,  
And every paper that I shall write upon,  
My flawed life will be written in the margins.  
But now when I see it, I will not manifest in it’s power,  
Only laugh and revel in its irony.


	16. The Only Thing I Have Left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this based off of the prompt, "Write about being in a hospital." I have a very close relationship with hospitals and have lots of experience being around them, and so this was a bit of a no-brainer to write about. This is all true, and purely wrote off of experiences that I have been through. 
> 
> TW:// Mentions of family deaths, hospitals, support groups, cancer

Write about being in a hospital - December 26th, 2019 3:55 a.m

Throughout my life I’ve been to the hospital many times. More times than I would like. So many times in fact, that by age ten, I had memorized all the hallways on the first three floors. Sad, yet true. I was hospitalized for the first time when I was around seven years old for severe croup. That only lasted a couple hours though. I only vaguely remember me bunched up in the little white bed, holding my blanket close to me. I never stayed anywhere without that thing. But then, the hospital started to become more familiar to me when I started reaching age eight-ish. 

My father was diagnosed with cancer. Many hospital visits, too many to count at this point. After he was cured, 6 months later it came back with thirst for death. I practically started to live at the hospital with how long my dad’s stays would be sometimes. Hell, my support group even helped me make a hospital stay box, which contained things for my own entertainment. A Nintendo DS, coloring pages, markers, god even rocks. Rocks!! I spent lots of school nights sitting with my dad in his hospital room playing Minesweeper, or Angry Birds. I ate so much cafeteria food, and spent too many hours in the chapel praying for his recovery. He never did recover. He died when I was ten. 

I hadn’t stepped a single foot in that hospital, for almost six years following his death. Until we got in a car crash, but that wasn’t too bad, but my mom was hospitalized when I was 15 because of her neurological problems. Unable to drive, and still in school. I missed four days of class to spend time with my mom at the hospital. All my memories came flooding back, along with my fear. I was afraid God would take my mom away too. I was scared that I still had memorized every hallway, and every chair in the waiting room was still in its place. I was seeing myself grow up. I despised the thought of my mother following in my father’s footsteps towards death. I was so scared, that I didn’t even enter the chapel to pray that time. I simply cried. I cried in fear of losing the only thing I had left.


	17. A Taste You Can't Swallow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this drabble when I was struggling with a bad alcohol addiction, which to this day still plagues me, but I'm doing better!
> 
> TW:// Alcohol consumption, addiction mention

The smell is potent and sharp.  
It's the smell I never liked as a child.  
Now I only find release in the sharp smell, Of wine and liquor, And a taste that I can barely stand to swallow.  
The burn is worth the feeling.  
The stumbling is worth the laughing.  
The crying is worth the numbness.

Is the addiction worth the price of your body?


	18. Poetry Is Not Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:// Imagery of puking, survivors guilt mention, mention of: death, blood, caskets, and cigarettes.
> 
> This was a chapter of venting for me. I am very critical of my work, and I can never seem to accept that what I am making, and imaging day by day is art, and poetry. Every bit of imagery is poetry to me, but some just can't be put into longer explanation and writing then simply what it is. 
> 
> So this is a compilation of imagery I have seen, made up, experienced, felt, read, and more. <3

Poetry is not art.  
  
Rainbow, streaking the sides of the jukebox hidden in the dusty corner.  
  
Poetry is not art.

The faint warm glow illuminating a depressed, cluttered room.  
  
Poetry is not art.  
  
Stacking of unusual shaped objects, one on top of the other, fitting together perfectly as to conveniently not fall.   
  
Poetry is not.  
  
The silky embrace of a fabric lined casket, freshly lowered beneath the ground. The pressure of the air growing tight.  
  
Poetry is not.  
  
Red wind whistling across a dreamscape, curling into pool of blood, and running down a bathtub's drain.

Poetry is not.

Dark vibration resonating deep within a broken chest, shaking the dismantled bones, and the looming feeling of dread.

Poetry is.

A neon pink moon, pulsating across a dark blue sky, scattered with aquamarine stars.  
  
Poetry is.  
  
Churning eruption forcing its way through a disgusted and horrified mouth, spilling out onto the floor, mangled with tears.

Poetry is.  
  
The smell of cinnamon and ginger, fluttering through the cold air, bringing warmth to a pounding heart.  
  
Poetry.

Morning humidity after a long rain in the middle of summer. City lights still bleak and flickering, before the rising of the sun.

Poetry.

A new feeling, as lips meet each other for the first time, and the mid afternoon sun melts away as eyelids flutter shut.  
  
Poetry.

The churning of rocks beneath heels, the faint smell of cigarette smoke as the crunching continues.

Poetry.

Clinking of a metal spoon on a glass bowl, and the loud noise of running water, as the last of a morning breakfast is discarded.

Poetry.

The soft yet prickly texture of a newly shaved head, as the other allows hands to be massaged all over their sensitive scalp.

Poetry.  
  
Rain patting softly on the window of a parked car, overlooking the dark ocean, where light barely reflects back.

Poetry.  
  
The agonizing weight of survivors guilt laying on a broken chest, unable to form proper breaths.  
  
Poetry.

Watching blue light pour through the window for the 31st day in a row, knowing tomorrow will be no different.

Poetry.


End file.
